


If You Ever Lose Your Mind

by man_superwoman



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Everyone Needs A Hug, Feelings, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/man_superwoman/pseuds/man_superwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If they ever black your eyes, put me wise,<br/>If they ever put a bullet through your brain, I'll complain.<br/>If you ever lose your mind, I'll be kind."</p><p>James Barnes remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rough 'em Up

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, they are Judy Garland lyrics  
> I just need to know what was running through Bucky's head in that damn helicarrier scene. He obviously remembered something, even if not as thorough as this  
> I need to know. I neED TO KNOW. My poor babu

“You. Are. My. Mission.” The Winter Soldier spat out, each word punctuated with a singular metallic blow to the mask-less face of Captain America laying slack and vulnerable below him. Steve stared straight up into the eyes of his old friend; both yellow and brown hair flying into his face as the helicarrier fell out of the sky, his right eye swelling and bleeding and blinding his vision- but he stared straight up. His eyes bored blue into the Soldier’s own with a sorrowful acceptance that burned through Bucky’s chest.

“Then finish it.” Steve said lowly, and Bucky’s metal arm froze in the air above his shoulder, and he just couldn’t bring himself to strike it down again. “Because I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

The Soldier’s ears began to reverberate with a deafening hum as a burn rippled and ripped through his head. The hulking metal machine around them groaned and creaked and tipped, the helicarrier crumbling and wind howling, and Bucky couldn’t breathe. He began to pant, frozen arm finally sagging and Steve still staring up into his eyes.

***

James Barnes stepped over the threshold of the orphanage’s front door, the summer wind knocking up his collar and curling in his hair, sun warming his face. He was eight years old and the year was 1925, and even the poorer side of Brooklyn gleamed. With a last glance back at the orphanage; with its towering grey bricks and slanted roof and red curtains flowing out of the open windows; he took off, loosening his jacket. The boy sprinted through the maze of alleyways and behind tiny corner shops that smelt of whiskey, running towards the centre of the city. A mottled stray dog latched onto his heel and they ran together a little while, the scruffy mutt yapping at the flap of his trouser leg. James turned a corner on his heels, raising dust, throwing a hand up in a wave to a tramp weaving patterns with his finger through the dirt covering the pavement.  The tramp waved back, scratchy beard hitching as he smiled. James flew over a metal gate he’d flown over many a time before, and that’s where the small dog left him, yapping and yapping as he ran off, then trailing back the way he’d come to wait ‘til the next time. James skidded to a stop at the far end of one alley just off the high street of central Brooklyn, where the crimson lights of a theatre and the smell of fresh cooked bread lay for him at the other. He had no money, but he could sure enjoy it anyway. The half-blind bread seller always gave him scraps or misshapen rolls or even burnt loaves, in return for upselling his baking all around the streets. The more business the kind old seller got, the more bread James ate, sometimes shoving some into his pockets to take it back to his few friends at the orphanage.

A couple walked past the alley then, oblivious to the grubby boy watching them, linked arm in arm. The woman’s short golden hair was meticulously curled against her skull and the pink fur draped around her shoulders rustled softly as her companion’s broad shoulders brushed against her own. The theatre lights shone red over their heads, even in the day, casting a fazed glow around their figures.

In a second there were five boys blocking the entrance, where the couple had been but not stayed. They all seemed around his own age, as dirty and scruffy too, but one was even taller than him and broader. Another was a good deal scrawnier than the others. The way the tall one towered over the littlest seemed threatening but James wasn’t scared- though the scrawny one looked it. With a shove and a ripping sound, the other boys pushed him into the alley, where James had ducked behind an overturned garbage can, and stepped away as the tall one pushed him into the wall. The kid’s hair was blond and shaggy, his clothes were torn and there was a blossoming cut on his lower lip as he shouted, “Get off o’ me! Let me fight you, I can take you! Get off!” When the tallest shoved him to the ground and planted his foot swiftly into the kid’s stomach with a crunch, James realised what they were doing. Forgetting about the theatre and the bread, he leapt from his hiding place, unable to stay away from an unfair fight.

“Hey! Hey, easy!” He grabbed the bully’s arm as it rose up for a punch, and the boy turned on him, skinny upper lip trembling angrily. He pushed James away with thick hands.

“Back off, squirt!”

“What- what are you doing?! Leave him, he’s just a kid!” James grabbed him again and was this time pushed himself to the dusty ground. He landed with a smack on his backside, and a dull pain blossomed there. The boy leaned over him, as the others watched on with wicked sneers on their thin faces.

“Yeah, and so are you- you want me to kick you too? You wanna end up like him?”

James swallowed, not daring a look at the blond scrawny one. “No.” He mumbled, and waited for the bully to look away.

“That’s right.” The bully said bluntly, satisfied with himself, and looked away.

James grinned and swung his legs out from under him, catching the boy around the ankles. He went slapping into the ground with a crack, face-first, crying out as his nose burst. Red blood poured down his face as they both stumbled to their feet, the bully’s round hand immediately swinging through the air. James blocked him easily with his forearm, and knocked him on the chin with the butt of his palm. When the boy grabbed his jaw in pain, James hitched his knee up and kicked the bully in his shin. The other boys were already gone, and as the boy looked desperately around for his back up, James laughed. He made a slight jerk as if he were to hit him again, and the boy yelped and turned on his heel, scarpering after his friends.

A little cough sounded at James’ feet. The blond kid was trying to stand up, and failing, so he offered him a hand. When he was upright, a good foot or so shorter than James, James said, “You alright, kid?”

“I’m fine. Thank you. I could o’ taken him.” He said quickly, clearing his throat and tentatively touching his stomach. The red light caught his face as the shaggy hair flipped off his cheek in the wind.

James chuckled. “I know. You got a cut on your lip.” He said, pointing. “Do you live close?”

“Mhm.” The kid hummed again.

“Your momma home?”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t talk very much, huh? Why don’t you talk?”

“Don’t wanna. Bad things happen when people talk.”

Bucky smiled, and stepped back in case the kid wanted some space or air.

“Well, that’s fair ‘nough. That’s what my momma said. What’s your name? I’m Bucky.” The name his mother had given him was James, but his middle name was Buchanan, after the President- so people just called him Bucky.

“I know.” The boy said, looking straight into his eyes. “Your real name’s James.”

Bucky was mildly startled but tried not to let it show for fear of startling him. “Yeah, you know me?”

“I’ve seen you at the orphanage.”

Bucky frowned. “Didn’t you say you got a momma?”

“Yeah, I got my ma, but sometimes I go.”

“To the orphanage?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“They’re nice there.”

Bucky paused. “I never see you. Will you say hi next time?”

“O-okay.”

Together they turned to walk towards the alley’s entrance. The bread smell hit Bucky again and his stomach rumbled, as the boy took a deep breath as soon as the sun lay warm on his face again- a breath that puffed out his tiny chest and reddened his cheeks nicely. A trickle of blood bounced in one spot on the boy’s chin, trailing down from his lip, and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes from it as the light caught on one side. He grimaced and rooted in his pocket for his dirty handkerchief. “Wipe your chin. And you still haven’t told me your name, kid.”

“I aint a kid, I’m seven.” He said, squinting at the muck on the cloth before tapping it against his skin. “I’m Steve.”


	2. Santa Claus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait a second, is Bucky Barnes Santa??????!!!!  
> Christ, this one is so short

“Steve, open the door! It’s me- Santa Claus!”

Bucky pounded his fist on the door, a bottle of old time whiskey tucked under his arm and a gift wrapped neatly in brown paper under the other. Snow fell all around him, unusual for Brooklyn but a nice sight anyway, feathery dustings of the white powder settling in his hair and on the dark shoulders of his jacket. The year was 1938 and it was December 24th, he was twenty one years old and his best friend Steve was twenty. The very kid himself swung the door open with a murderous look.

“Stop banging!”

Bucky grinned and opened his arms as wide as he could, mindful of the bottle and gift. “Merry Christmas!”

Steve rolled his eyes over-dramatically, smiled, and hugged him gently, “Merry Christmas, Buck,” taking the whiskey with him as he pulled away. He was dressed in his casual clothes; a loose pair of tan trousers and a huge grey woollen jumper that Bucky thought may have been his at some point. He had obviously been dozing, for the usually neat blond hair was sticking up messily over his left ear, comically awkward. Steve held the bottle out in front of him and admired it, the brown liquid jostling with his movements and staining the inside of the glass.

“Classy.” He muttered appreciatively, and stepped back to let Bucky in. His friend bustled past him into Steve’s flat, shimmying out of his jacket and throwing it over the back of the couch, fingering the gift in his hand.

“Here.” He smirked, and threw it over. Steve had already placed the bottle carefully on a side table, and jumped when the package came flying at him. He fumbled with it in his hands until he had gotten a good grip, and huffed out in relief. It was soft, squishy, wrapped in brown paper from the post office, with a red ribbon tied around it.

“No, no, you didn’t have to.” He stuttered, embarrassed, looking up at Bucky.

Every year, without fail, Bucky got him a Christmas gift; whether it was a new set of sketching pencils or a proper pair of thick socks to replace Steve’s old ones. And every year, without fail, Steve didn’t return the favour. It’s not that he didn’t want to, or care, in fact he really wanted to and he really cared, but money was tight. Money was always tight. Steve didn’t know how Bucky got his hands on the stuff, but he was grateful anyway. Bucky stared at him as if he’d said the most stupid thing in the world.

“That’s the stupidest thing in the world! Course I did, you’re my best pal!” Bucky cried, leaning on the back of the couch. He’d bought it with his own money, money he’d scraped together between jobs. There was a little place just down the end of the high street of Brooklyn, near where they first met, that sold exactly what he was looking for. Yes, he’d blown all his wages on it and was living off beans at the time, but it was for Steve, so he didn’t mind. Suddenly he jerked up and pointed seriously at Steve. “Don’t open it ‘til I’m gone though, I hate being around when people open presents from me.”

“Yeah, I know, in case they hate them. But you know I’m not gonna hate it. Whatever it is.”

Bucky smiled softly. “Mm. Still don’t though.”

It was then that Steve noticed Bucky’s clothes. He was dressed sharp, in an ironed burgundy shirt and thin black tie and blazer, with black trousers and shiny shoes. His hair was even combed back a little. “You shipping out?”

Bucky stared down at his outfit. “Some of the orphanage kids are having a party down south for the weekend, thought I’d tag along, see them again. You think I look okay?” He grimaced self-consciously.

“You look good, Buck, don’t worry.”

Bucky almost blushed. “You doing anything?”

“Nah.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Something wrong with that?” Steve’s eyes locked onto his, blue right onto brown, and Bucky sighed a long-suffering sigh, fiddling with the flaps of his pockets.

“Steve, you do nothing every year. You see no-one, c’mon, man, it’s Christmas!” He pushed off the couch, walking slowly over to Steve, the light from the open door falling over his face and lighting up his eyes. They flashed almost manically with something akin to passion. He grinned at the last word but Steve’s face fell.

“I don’t care what time of year it is. And I _have_ no-one, Bucky.” He picked up the whiskey and moved around Bucky, towards the couch. He suddenly felt the cold from outside. He turned his back on his friend and played with the cap.

“You got _me_.” Bucky said, after a moment, his voice low.

Steve said quickly, “You’re going with your friends.”

“ _You’re_ my friend.” Bucky shot back.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Steve looked around and threw Bucky his jacket. “Go, you’re gonna miss the bus.” He tried to put as much authority into his voice as he could, but Bucky didn't even flinch. Figures.

He said, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Don’t be.” Steve smiled gently, reassuringly.

Bucky laughed and slammed the door with a backwards push of his palm. He scuffed forward again, leaning around Steve to put his jacket back on the couch. He took the whiskey and determinately screwed off the cap. “No, I’m sorry, but I’m not going. I’ll let them know I can’t-”

“Bucky-”

He took a swig. “- they’ll understand, don’t worry.”

“Bucky.”

“It’s fine!” He took another swig and winced sharply at the bitterness, holding it out before him. “You’re stuck with me, Rogers.” Steve was about to protest again, but Bucky looked like he wouldn’t have any of it, so Steve clasped the bottle, their fingers touching, and followed suit. The whiskey was pleasantly hot in his throat, and he coughed. Bucky patted his shoulder with a warm hand and swung his legs over the couch, landing with a thump on the cushions. He unbuttoned his blazer and settled down with a deep contented sigh, hand reaching automatically for Steve's little old radio. Steve smiled at the floor.

“Can I open your present now?”

Bucky leapt back up again as if he’d been shocked, radio in hand, striding straight out into the hallway. “Let me leave the room first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO you've probably guessed by now this is just little flashback drabbles  
> Sighs loudly about pre-serum stevebucky  
> So short. Can you tell I'm not a novelist


	3. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT a Bucky memory. This is a Steve memory  
> I know Bucky is supposed to be remembering shit, but I really liked the idea that Bucky sends letters and something happens to motivate Steve to try and sign up again  
> I don't know if the timeline is correct; i.e. when Steve is recruited against when 107th first get's compromised, but think of it as a 'just a little bit au' au

Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat.

“Rogers, you in?”

Steve almost dropped the saucepan in his hands. Hissing, the placed the hot pan in the sink, boiling tomato sauce bubbling over into the stainless steel bowl. He wiped his palms on his trousers and ran for the visitor.

Rat-a-tat.

“It’s Joey.”

Steve threw open the front door, cool wind blowing through around the stocky man on the porch. He was disgruntled, yellow paint chips under his finger nails as he held out a brown envelope.

“Hey, Joe. Sorry.”

“Letter for ya. Have a good day.”

“Thanks. You too. Have you found who did the graffiti yet?”

“Nah, but you’ll god damn know when I do. Freaking kid.”

Steve stifled a smirk and slammed the door. Eagerly rolling onto the couch and bringing his knees up to his chest, he slipped his finger into the crease of the brown envelope and tore it open. The paper was tanned and dirty, but the smudgy black scratching addressed to him was plain and simply lovely. He unbuttoned the top of his pale green shirt in a nervous cold sweat, palms clammy and stomach churning, as the paper unfolded in his fingers.

_Steve,_

_I know you have a lot of respect for the armed forces, and, hell, so do I. But I swear on the life of that stupid stray round by yours that I’m barely keeping it together._

_They’re my teammates, and we work well together, but boy do I need a break. Really roughing me up wrong, worse than Jimmy Smith when we were kids. Dugan found the picture of us at Coney, the one in my sack, and wouldn’t let up about it for days. Don’t worry, he’s nursing a sore jaw as we speak._

_It’s difficult, Steve._

_We thought it was all honour and glory and uniforms and fame, slaughtering the enemy and saving the allies. Maybe it is_ sometimes _._

_Yesterday, we had to walk a few miles out, to the outskirts of some close-by town, and there were kids there. Little, skinny, blond. Reminded me of you, really. We were ambushed, and the kids died. I thought that was it, I thought I was gonna lose it right there and then. But I didn’t, and I was actually proud. Not that I didn’t violently avenge the kids like I wanted to, ‘cause trust me I did; but because I remembered you and mom and dad, and I held it together._

_I want to see you again, Steve, I do. But please. Please don’t come out here. Wait for me to come home._

_I won’t be able to write for a while. I’m going out with 107 th on a ‘secret’ mission, they said. By the time you’re reading this I’ll be already out there, so wish me luck._

_Remember to take your medicine. It’ll be getting cold now so wear that scarf we got from the charity store. Don’t tell Joey I was the one who painted all over his walls, because he_ will _murder me. And draw me something, anything- put it in your next letter. Keep safe, Steve._

 

Steve’s shaking fingers dropped the letter into his lap. ‘Barely keeping it together’, violent avenging, secret missions, punching comrades? His breath was thick and heavy, burning in the back of his throat. Steve fell over the coffee table, reaching into a drawer to fetch his inhaling device. A few deep breaths and he sat back against the wall, hunching his knees up again and resting his chin down. He latched on to the letter, which had fluttered down to the carpet, curling in on itself. Stupid tears pricked at his eyes and Steve scolded himself silently. Bucky was the one out abroad, fighting for his life and his country, and he was crying at a letter.

He scrambled to his feet. Taking a deep breath, he re-buttoned his shirt, wiped the remnants of tomato off his trousers, and made a determined stride to the door. On the way, he stooped to pocket the letter. Bucky may have said to stay, but Steve would not let himself live with abandoning his friend alone and struggling, so Bucky would have to just deal with it. Steve wrapped himself up in his scarf, slipped his inhaler into his jacket, and slammed the door.

There was a pop-up recruitment centre about ten minutes across town, and god help him, Steve Rogers would be there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laughs at how short this is. I am very sorry  
> (((((I have nothing against Dum Dum Dugan, he's just the first that I thought of)))))))  
> The next one will be a Bucky memory. Pwomise


	4. Memories and Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, but yAY for length

The pulsing water burned Bucky’s skin, clouded steam rising up and pooling at the ceiling of the shower tent. His arms were red and sore from the heat, and his eyes stung, but his legs felt like solid lead against the concrete floor. He couldn't move. He wouldn't move for fear of collapsing onto the shower floor. Whilst it stung his skin and made even the deepest bones ache, it grounded him. He was alive.

Electricity. Pain. It all soared through his head and behind the closed lids of his eyes, flashes of light and recollection, the memories clawing at his brain and heart and lungs.

Then his throat was constricting, he couldn't breathe. He was alive. He repeated it in his head like a mantra, he was alive.

Needles. Pain.

His body began to shake from fear and heat, residual pain and terror; and Bucky clawed at the puncture wounds littering his arms and the surface cuts designed purely for callous marring. He stumbled backwards against the shower wall, wet curtain crumbling under his body and tumbling him to the floor. He curled around his drawn up knees.

He- he was- he was ali-

Fire ravaged up his body, tangling in his lungs and trapping his heart, pushing its way up his throat and he cried out. Images shot up around him; of needles and electricity cables and freaking Hydra surgeons coming toward him with dirty smiles and syringes, of his own blood and screams and the heart beat in his ears.

He screamed wretchedly into the floor, more of a pitiful moan that simply tugged at his chest.

The searing water was shut off. Bucky flinched at the sudden cold. Cool, soft hands touched his shoulders and knees tentatively, lots of hands, and he wondered how many people were crammed into the shower with him. Then;

“Buck. Hey, it’s alright. Bucky! Look at me, buddy. It’s me.”

Bucky could have laughed in relief, but even his teeth were shaking, so he just groaned and grimaced. Steve turned his body into his brand new big one, cradling Bucky’s burning naked body into his. His hands were flitting all over, trying to touch every inch of Bucky for his own reassurance. Bucky made no move to get out of the embrace, though his savaged mind took a while to register why Steve had grown. No longer was he bony and little, all pale skin and skinny limbs. He was over twice as broad, tanned from the foreign sun, shoulders rounded from muscle. A super-soldier, Bucky recalled.

As Steve whispered nonsensical strings of words into Bucky’s hair, the fire and needles and pain were diminishing away to specks in the back of his head, replaced by the solidity of his friend’s voice.

There was nothing to tell the time in the shower room, and Steve had left his watch on his bunk, so neither of the men knew how long they sat in the bottom of the damp makeshift cubicle. Eventually, however, Steve moved away, content Bucky was calm, and tried to lift him. Bucky protested, and told him to get the towel slung over a chair in the corner. No way was he walking through camp stark naked, no matter how confident he was. Bucky stood by himself, tied it around his waist, and with a nod accepted the jacket Steve handed him after he lost control of a full-body shiver. Steve pulled aside the wrecked curtain and Bucky stepped past, pausing in front of the entrance flaps to the tent. Steve placed his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“You okay, Buck?”

Bucky smiled as best he could and the two headed out for his improvised home. His bunk was in a tent alone, like Steve’s, as was insisted when they returned, for recovery purposes he assumed. He had tried to object, but apparently he had suffered the most at the hands of the captors, so he’d grudgingly allowed Steve to claim one for him. It was small, a little messy; but there was a thin, soft bed and a lamp, a crate for belongings and a shallow steel basin. Bucky’s autopilot seemed to kick in halfway across camp, mind set on bed and bed alone, and he vaguely remembered ignoring others who tried to talk to him along the way. He assumed Steve gave them the basics instead as he dropped back out of Bucky’s vision briefly. Sinking down onto the bed, Bucky stared at his hands and the cuts marring them. From the corner of his eye he saw the flash of light where the tent opened, and Steve was holding a pair of deep brown trousers out to him. Not bothering for decency, Bucky swapped the towel with the trousers there on the bed. Steve slowly sat beside him.

“You want to talk about it?”

Steve always wanted to talk, ever since he was a scrawny kid. Whether it was about something mundane like the weather or the rent or a radio show; or something different like Carol Parish, Bucky’s first love who one day told him she was going to choose Billy Jones over him.

“Not really.”

“Okay.” Steve really wanted to talk about it, he could tell, but he respected Bucky enough to comply.

Bucky fiddled with his jacket, the skin of his fingers still red and hot, as the rest of his body probably was too. They were sore as they rubbed together, but the pain sparked up that old thought again. He was alive. The pain at least told him that. He remembered how cool Steve’s hands were in the shower and his eyes flicked over to where they rested in his lap. Steve was watching his every move with something like fear or worry, so he caught the glance instantly. Without hesitating, he placed one palm over Bucky’s fist, feeling how rough the warm skin was under his. Bucky sighed and turned his hand over, so their thumbs slotted together nicely and fingers curled around eachother. Fluttering coolness radiated up Bucky’s wrist.

“I don’t know what they did to you, Bucky,” Steve broke the quiet, “but saving you was my mission, and I’m going to kill the people who almost made me fail.”

Bucky squeezed his hand but said nothing. Until, after a few silent minutes had passed,

“I was a guinea pig.” He felt rather than saw Steve’s head shoot round. “They experimented on me. I don’t know what any of it was, just know it hurt like hell and I wanted to…” He paused and considered leaving his sentence unfinished, for the sake of Steve. But Steve was a big boy now. “I wanted to die.”

Steve said nothing and Bucky couldn’t bear to see his expression, but he grabbed at Bucky’s other hand, holding them tight together on the small space of mattress between them.

“Then you were there.” He smiled, and met Steve’s eyes. He wasn’t quite crying, but his blue eyes were wet as he stared at Bucky in sad horror. At that, his face softened, if only a little. “There you were, taller than I remembered…” Bucky mused jokily and Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “It was like you broke through the reverie, you broke through to me, and when you lifted me up and marched me out of there, I didn’t want to die anymore. I wanted to be alive. I wanted to live and be by your side. After all, Captain America’s gonna need a sidekick right?”

“Bucky Barnes, if anything, I’m _your_ sidekick.” Steve grinned, face flushed. In embarrassment, emotion, or something else, Bucky couldn’t say.

“You completed your mission, kid.”

Steve nodded, his head bobbing gently as if in slow motion. “I guess I did.”

They watched eachother then. Steve surveying the bruises to his cheeks and the cuts on his eyebrow and ear, sharp contrasts to the bright wide eyes staring right back at him; Bucky marvelling at his stronger neck and shoulders, how his face had filled out, and how he beamed with more hope than he’d ever seen from the boy.

A call from outside broke the contemplation, as Dugan called, “Grub’s up, lads!”

Steve cleared his throat as he turned away, and Bucky was pretty sure the tips of his ears had turned red. “Better go.” He said. “You coming?”

Bucky peered down at his flat pillow, looking more inviting than ever. “No, I think I’m gonna kip for a while. Save me something?”

Steve made a committal hum, and stood, softly releasing Bucky’s hand. He paused in the entrance to the tent. “If you ever feel like that again, you gotta tell me. Please, Buck.”

Bucky nodded, his head throbbing at the sudden movement. “You got it.” And with that Steve was gone, leaving Bucky with a smile and a flash of dark blue suit and yellow hair. Bucky lay back on the mattress, his body protesting, and closed his eyes to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get emotional about Bucky Barnes at the weirdest times  
> There's one chapter left, it'll be a short one but don't worry it will be painful


	5. A New (Old) Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been 83 yearsssss since the last chapter  
> 

Steve was falling and he couldn't do a thing.

His entire being was screaming at him to reach out and clutch at those fingertips that were gliding out of reach. Steve was falling and the Winter Soldier’s body hung stiffly in the air, Bucky screaming inside his head to just _reach out._ He knew him, he _knows_ him, _somehow._ He could see it; Steve stood before him with a crooked smile, or the two of them sneaking into the movies; but it was wrong. It felt wrong. He knew the memories, recognised they were meant to be his, but it was like he was looking from someone else’s eyes, simply observing instead of experiencing.

But he… he _knew_ him. If only a little, Steve’s face and voice and those memories sparked something inside of Bucky that had been forcibly suppressed for over seventy years. Something he wanted to follow. Maybe.

Steve was still falling painfully slow and the Soldier made his first free will decision in that split second where he floated in the air below him, swollen eyes finally slipped shut and suited body rippling. He let go. The thick metal of his new fingers unclenched and the metal support groaned at its freedom, and then Bucky was falling too. The air whipping around his face and stinging his eyes and inside his nose, the rapid flapping of wind beating at his ears as he tumbled, the feeling of floating in nothingness; it all seemed oddly familiar. Spinning in the wind, his eyes’ only constant was a blue figure spiralling below him.

Then that figure disappeared into a cocoon of waves and white froth, and he shut his eyes as he went diving after, arm finally reaching out to grasp at the neck of blonde hair.

For the first time in over 50 years, Bucky Barnes was defying orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scREAMS ABOUT REMEMBERING!REDEEMED!BUCKY  
> This is it folks; it's short and sweet and weird but I like it

**Author's Note:**

> Shorrrrttttt.  
> A lot of this will be short chapters I reckon  
> I think their ages are right, idk


End file.
